My brick of an iPhone rang as I swung three carry-ons over my shoulder.
“Hi, sweetie. I’m just making sure you made it to your gate all right.”
“Hey, Mom! No, we’ve not even checked in yet.
My daughter Audrey pulled on my dress incessantly and I gripped my son's chubby hand tightly. “Yeah, Mom, I’ll call you later; I've got to go.”
I hung up and turned toward my needy children assuring them once we made it through security I would secure them breakfast.
We were flying home for my sister's wedding, and I HATED flying. Honestly in my opinion you may as well put a deposit on a burial plot and climb in your coffin. This intense anxiety was merely the cherry atop my travel sundae. Juggling six suitcases, three carry-ons, and two children was like playing a game of Tetris. Or a game of would you rather…(would you rather someone steal your suitcase or your child)
I began the schlep of all schlepps to the check-in counter which was surely a sight fit for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Fellow morning travelers buzzed by, carry-ons rolling and whizzing around in a frenzy. Not a single bystander nor employee offered to help me, and while obviously they aren’t obligated to do so, it would have been a lifeline to me in the moment if anyone had. Finally I was down to just three carry-ons and two children which felt slightly more manageable.
“Here’s your change” The server placidly said, handing me a five.
I handed the kids each a smoothie filled to the brim. It was nice while it lasted, which wasn’t long, because in a matter of moments, Audrey’s smoothie decorated the sad linoleum airport floor AND my white Christy Dawn dress (rookie travel mistake). She started wailing and I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the calamity.
One wedding, three weeks, and a healthy dose of family drama later, were itching to head back to San Diego. One bump in the travel road home came in the form of a six-hour layover in Las Vegas.
Touch down in Vegas, and as I walked off the plane, I was not entirely prepared for the scene that awaited me. Slot machines, smoking clubs, and bars lined the walls, creating a veritable visual paradise for any child. But especially my hyperactive three your old son. One simply does not think you’ll have to tell your toddler
“No dear, you can’t go into the cigar lounge” repeatedly throughout the course of one night. Yet there we were. Five hours finally passed, and it was nearly time to board the plane. One problem though, both of my children had fallen asleep. Dead to the world Niagara Falls drooling sleep. Between the three carry-ons and the two giant sleeping babes, I actually wasn’t sure how I would manage to board the plane. My deep-seated flying anxiety was rearing its ugly head and I was reasonably certain I would spend the night in the airport and just ask my husband to drive 8 hours and pick us up. Surely that's a reasonable request, yes? I was lost in thought and a deep wrinkle began sending in an application for permanent residence to my forehead when a stranger approached me.
“Hi, I couldn’t help but notice you, and I promise I’m not creepy, but do you need help?”
Far past any pretense of put-togetherness at this point, I looked up far too earnestly at this man and melodramatically said,
“Yes”
”I’m gay,” he flatly stated.
“Ok,” I said, registering the information but sincerely not caring and wondering why he felt the need to tell me.
He was tall, blond, and strong; he was California in a picture. He reached out, and I handed him my son, who nestled into his shoulder as comfortably as if he were his father. We walked side by side to board, and the flight attendant greeted us as a family, assuming we belonged to each other, which at that exact moment; we did. Then we all took our seats. Coincidentally he was seated in the row just opposite mine!
“Thank you so much for your help; I’m not sure I could have boarded without you.”
“You looked like you needed it. I’m glad I could help,” he replied.
We conversed like old friends the entire rest of the flight.
Touch down in San Diego, and I felt the weight of the world fall off my shoulders as our travels had finally reached their end. I thanked him profusely once more as we got off the plane. He offered to help me bring my luggage to the car, but by that time my husband had arrived and was already hands-on helping. I thanked the kind stranger once more, and while I may not remember his name, I will never forget him or his kindness.
